Musings Of A Concussed Engineer
by RescueSquad51
Summary: Returning home from a brushfire, the crew of Engine 51 shouldn't be in any further danger, right? Sorry, Mike, but you're about to find that getting hurt can come from the unlikeliest cause.


Hello again, folks, and welcome to my latest story.

Yes, Madi and I have been chatting again - this time about the measures that Mike may take to protect Big Red from all those dirty, sooty firemen. Some of them are serious, and others... well, not so much.

As Madi knows already, I also love to share the whumpage around. I hate for anyone to feel left out. And since Mike was the only one who didn't get hurt during the series... yes, time for him to join the club of pain and suffering.

Before you all find out how, though, the boys of 51 are about to find that their engineer isn't quite himself.

Oh, and a special mention to Marbo. I'd love to be able to tell you directly, but unfortunately I can't reply to an unsigned review. But I'd just like you to know how much I appreciate your reviews for my stories. I'm so glad you enjoy them, and I hope you enjoy this latest one too!

* * *

Musings Of a Concussed Engineer

Hank Stanley rubbed his hand over his eyes, and winced at the layers of dirt, soot and sweat that it came back with. Damn, he was tired. Aching in places that he didn't even know he had. From the other, equally filthy faces beside him, he knew the rest of his crew felt the same.

But they'd survived. They'd come through this brushfire with just a few scratches, and twinged muscles between them. Now they'd been stood down, and they were free to get back to the station. Get cleaned up, grab a quick bite to eat, and go home.

But then, he'd reckoned without his idea of bureaucracy's worst nightmare - now suddenly and inexplicably disguised as his own second in command.

Except this Mike Stoker looked kinda... different. At least, different to how he'd looked five minutes ago - as sweaty, sooty and filthy as the rest of them. Now, somehow, he was as immaculately dressed as usual. And spotlessly clean. From his perfectly groomed hair to his super shiny boots, every bit of him positively glowed.

Standing there with his clipboard, he was the living poster boy for the LA County Fire Department. The piles of plastic sheeting and bubble wrap beside him, though? Those ropes and roller skates?

' _What the hell's he doing with those_?!'

Not so much.

Somewhere in this bizarro world, he'd also jumped the chain of command. The seniority of his captain meant nothing here. No, the only way that he, and everyone else, was going to get onto their engine and go home was through Michael Poppins here. And enough buckets and brushes to make Bert swoon with envy.

 _'I swear, if he starts talking like Dick Van Dyke, I'll burn the lot of 'em. And his hat._ '

Thankfully, the voice was normal. Just brisker than usual. Louder, too. More the drill sergeant from hell than their _'so quiet we forget he's there'_ engineer.

"Right, men, you have this choice, and this choice only. You either clean my engine down, and wrap her in these protective measures before you put so much as a finger on her. Or I tie you to the back rail, and you can skate home behind her."

Against a line of _'what the hell_?' faces, a smile appeared. A big, beaming, and full out freaky grin. Kinda like that shark's before it gnaws your arm off.

"Your call."

Silence. Another trade of puzzled glances, that ended with Johnny's snort of laughter, and helpless grins from everyone else.

"Yeah, funny, Mike. Real funny. Now let us on, before we tie _you_ to the rail."

Not for the first time, and never for the last, the family baby had engaged his mouth ahead of his brain. Except this time, all of them were going to pay the price for it, as a flash of light left five, now thoroughly freaked out firefighters tied to the back of their engine.

On roller skates. Skittering down the streets of Los Angeles, while maniacal laughter in front of them sped them even faster.

Needless to say, they weren't too happy about it.

"Damn it, Junior, why'd you have to say that for?!"

"Mike? Aww, come on, slow down, will ya?"

"Michael? Damn it, Stoker, pull this rig over, right now. You hear me? That's an order!"

"Mike?"

"Miiiiiike?"

"Damn it, _MIIIII-CHAAAAELLLLL_!"

* * *

"Mike?"

"Mike? Mike, can you hear me?"

"Mike? Hey, Roy? Cap? He's coming round."

A bustle of movement beside him. Thanks to deities, led by the only person who, aside from his mother, could get away with using his full name.

"Thank God for that. Mike? Michael? Take it easy, pal, you'll be okay now."

Okay _now_? Soooo - had he not been okay before? Did that explain this splitting headache? The pain that had started in his left shoulder, and now crept through every other part of him? And whoever was flicking this damn light in his eyes, could they _please_ go away?

Nope, no luck there either, as gentle hands restrained him, while another peeled back his eyelid for more fun with Mr Flicky.

"Mike? Come on, Mike, keep your eyes open for me. It's okay, it's me, it's Johnny. I'm just checking you over."

Checking him over? What the hell for? And what could John Gage find of such damn interest in his _eye_?

Judging by the flurry of words and numbers that followed, a surprising amount.

"Pulse 110. BP 100 over 70. Respirations 15. Pupils equal and reactive. All reflexes normal. Level of consciousness improving."

All that from his eyeballs? Wow. The wonders of paramedical training.

As his senses returned, so clearer thought did too. So, he'd hurt himself. Badly enough for John Gage to report it all back to his partner. _And_ Rampart. Seriously enough for him to see a blur of other anxious faces above him - and hear the most worried face of them all demand an oddly terse update.

"Roy? Any news on that ambulance?"

Yes, apparently, but not to his captain's liking, since another flurry of questions, opinions and orders ping-ponged around him.

"An hour? Damn, we can't wait that long. Johnny? Can we take him in ourselves?"

"What, on the engine? Yeah, he's stable enough, Cap, and there's no spinal injury, so... yeah, we can take him. Roy?"

"Yeah, with this depth of concussion, Cap, we need to get him to Rampart as fast as we can. But with that shoulder, we'll need to take it easy."

"Right, I'll drive us in. Johnny, Roy, I want both of you up there with him. Marco, Chet, you take the squad."

Through another blur of movement, Mike felt himself being lifted onto a backboard, and up into a line of hands. Above him, the sky was a clear and perfect blue. Beside him, two brothers he'd trust with his life smiled their reassurance, while their hands on his arms squeezed their encouragement. And beneath him, against the wail of sirens, he felt the thrum of revving gears. The power and speed of his engine, as she carried him home.

* * *

Stillness again. A blinding white ceiling, instead of a perfect blue sky. The faint tang of antiseptic, and - aww, damn it! Mr Flicky was back.

Not from Johnny, though. No, the head that now hovered above him had the same colour hair, but the older, craggier face below it belonged to... to... aah. A fuzzy blur, that gradually turned into Doctor Brackett.

So he was at Rampart now? When had _that_ happened? More to the point, what had happened to _him_? And how had he got here? Why couldn't he remember?

More questions, that he was just too dazed and sore to answer. Still, Cap was there at his other side. So were Roy and Johnny, of course, still clearly 'on the job' as they continued to check his vitals. And where he'd hoped that they'd help him to fill in the blanks, Doc Brackett seemed just as keen to make him do it himself.

"Mike? I know you're in a lot of pain right now, but can you tell me what happened?"

He was in pain? Really? To his puzzled relief, he didn't seem to be feeling it, and - ah. Whatever they were feeding through this IV above him was clearly the good stuff. The last time he'd felt this pleasantly muzzy was after he'd had his tonsils out. Then days of his favourite ice cream, and his favourite cartoons, and cuddling his fire engine plushie, and... oooh, what was the question again?

"Okay, Mike, let's try it this way. Just try to focus now... what's the last thing you remember?"

Doc Brackett again, still kindly voiced, but with an expectancy on his face that brought an 'uh oh' wince onto his own. From the silence beside him, Cap and the others had clearly been told not to help him out, so... okay, here went a worrying lot of nothing.

"The - The brushfire, Doc... up in Topanga Canyon... then, uh... being stood down, and... um, heading back to the station."

From the approving nods around him, he was on the right track. Yet he still frowned at the images that had ghosted through a still addled mind. Quite what piles of plastic sheeting, bubble wrap, ropes, and roller skates had to do with how he'd got hurt was completely beyond him, and... aww, more questions too? When all he wanted to do right now was curl up on his hosebed, and go to sleep?

"Okay, Mike, that's good... that's fine... now, can you remember anything else? Can you remember how you got here?"

Beneath that frown of effort, an alarm bell started to ring. Grew steadily louder, until it made him squirm with a rising unease. If he was here, in this treatment room, then where was -?

"Th-The engine! Where's my engine?"

"Whoa, pal, it's okay, she's fine. She's right outside, right next to the squad. It's okay, just try to to answer the doc's question... okay?"

Cap's voice this time, with enough of a smile to calm him instantly down. Or maybe it was these meds, that were pulling him even deeper into their web of cosy, sleepy warmth.

Doc Brackett, too, had realized that he'd remembered all that he could. The stern face was smiling again, the hand on his arm that of a relieved friend instead of a twenty questions doctor.

"Okay, Mike, let's get that shoulder and arm into a cast, and get you settled into your room. I'll check in on you later... okay?"

A cast? For his shoulder, _and_ his arm? Okay, so that explained why they were strapped up like a mummy, but... oooh, he was getting his own room too now? And the doc was going to check in on him later? So they were keeping him here, not sending him home? That didn't sound good.

Still, at least Dixie was there now, breaking the bad news with her own, much needed TLC as she brushed back his hair.

"You might not be feeling it right now, Mike, but you've broken your shoulder, your elbow, and you've got a peach of a concussion. So for the next forty eight hours at least, honey, you're mine. All mine."

Against a line of quickly hidden smirks, Mike stared back at her. Forty eight hours? On some lumpy mattress? And - oh, God! Two days of hospital food?!

As his mouth opened to argue, though, so a _'don't even think about it'_ eyebrow persuaded him to close it. Yes, Dixie had spoken, and you didn't defy her on your best day, let alone when it felt like your head was going to explode. Instead, he nodded, both in acceptance to her, and gratitude for his captain's ability to understand his priorities.

"Don't worry, pal, we'll take real good care of her. You just do everything these guys tell you to get back on your feet, and get back to her... okay?"

Met with silence, and now firmly closed eyes, the smile faded. So did everyone else's as they watched Mike's gurney being wheeled towards the door. Sedated out of his pain, he was now oblivious to the worry and dismay he'd left behind.

Luckily, Kel Brackett knew how to deal with the after-shock of anxious, shaken relatives. God knew, he'd had the practice. But then, these hose jockeys needed their own kind of bedside manner. When one of them got hurt, _all_ of them got hurt.

From his most frequent patient alone, he had the whole 'fireman family' thing down pat. And, if indirectly, he was part of that family too.

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of sending them home. Aside from a damn good wash, they clearly needed the rest, and he knew his patient would still be pretty out of it. With any luck, he'd now sleep until the morning.

But then he smiled, knowing it would be a waste of both breath and time. Until they saw him again for themselves, none of them were going anywhere. So he'd go with tried and trusted Plan B. Herd these five anxious, exhausted firefighters into the coffee lounge, so he could sit them all down, and talk it all out.

Their faces alone told him what was worrying them the most. In truth, it had rattled him too. Head injuries were tricky and complex things, and could quickly develop into life threatening complications. But the x rays and CT scans had come back clear, and he had enough experience to know that Mike would make a full recovery. Now all he had to do was convince them of that too.

"I know it's an old doctor's cliché, boys, but try not to worry. With this level of concussion, memory loss and confusion isn't unusual. Once he's had enough rest to let all those synapses unscramble, he'll be fine. And you know we'll take real good care of him. Don't tell her I told you this, but Dix is never happier than when she has one of you boys to fuss over."

That won him a round of wry grins, and grateful laughter - enough for him to smile too, and indulge his own curiosity.

"And just for my own interest, what _did_ happen out there? I mean, for Johnny to get hurt I can understand, for any day of the week... and Roy for less of 'em too, but _Mike_? The only time I've ever seen him in here is for his physical."

A perfectly reasonable point, but one that generated another round of _'if we can't believe it, you won't either'_ glances. A sulky glare from his favourite patient. And as their captain, it was Hank who finally answered him.

"Well, as he said, we were on our way back to the station when this old couple flagged us down. Their water supply was out, and they were getting pretty upset, so Mike offered to take a look at it."

Pausing to finish his coffee, Hank then shook his head - taking the further silence from the others as his cue to continue.

"Fixing that tank-valve was a doddle for him. Took him just a few minutes. But that was long enough for the floorboards under him to give way."

Another pause, joined this time by a wry smile to defuse the exasperation beyond it.

"Kinda too late by then for the old boy to warn us about the woodworm."

From the mutters that followed, that 'if only' was shared by all of them. And now that he'd set the ball rolling, there was no way to stop it. Starting with Johnny, the floodgates opened as the rest of them told their parts of the story.

"The crazy thing is, Doc, we came through that brushfire without a scratch. Eight hours straight, and all Roy and I were needed for were eye-baths, and a few minor burns from other crews. Then we stop to repair this old water tank, and Mike ends up in here with concussion and a broken shoulder."

Beside him, Chet nodded - the bickering between them put on hold against the concern for an injured brother.

"Yeah, talk about your messed up karma. Just doesn't feel right, Doc, you know? For him to get hurt like that."

"Yeah, when he came through that ceiling and hit the ground, every one of us felt it."

Marco this time, followed by Roy - still clearly affected by what that impact on Mike's body had caused.

"I heard it too. When that humerus went, it was... God, Doc, for the first time since I went through training, I damn near threw up."

For their captain, and Kel knew for all of them too, the unconsciousness that had followed had been both a blessing to spare their friend's agony, and one of the worst scares of their lives.

"He was just out for so long, Doc. Aside from when my kids were born, they were the longest eight minutes of my life."

Four heads around him nodded in somber agreement. From what he'd just heard, Kel now understood why they still looked so shaken. After facing a fire that posed such a threat to their lives, this was an accident that could have so easily been avoided. The frustration in Johnny's voice really spoke for them all.

"If only he'd told us, Cap. I know he was real upset about it, but I just wish he'd told us."

Even if he agreed with him, Team Dad still needed to calm the family baby down, and remind them all of their new priorities.

"I do too, pal, but... look, it's happened, and we can't do anything to change that. What we need to do now is all we can to get Mike back on his feet."

Their part in this talk-through complete, all eyes now turned towards Kel again, for his professional confirmation of what they already knew.

"Yes, like I said before, Hank, he'll make a full recovery. But it's going to take time for that shoulder and elbow to heal. And a _lot_ of therapy."

To his relief, the smile on Hank's face returned - reflecting the bonds that would bring Mike through this long and painful process.

"Oh, he'll get it, Kel. Whatever he needs, for as long as it takes."

More nods of agreement, thankfully happier this time - and made even happier when the door opened, and Dixie came in to give them the news they all wanted to hear.

"Okay, boys, he's all yours. Room 256. But just a few minutes, okay? And no trying to wake him, he needs to rest now. You _all_ do."

She had them at his room number. As their coffee lounge magically emptied, so Kel regarded its cause in both admiration and exasperation.

"Oh, way to clear a room, Dix."

A shrug. And, of course, just the hint of a satisfied smile.

"What can I say? It's a talent."

Knowing this was a contest that he'd never win, Kel grinned too. She was the best head nurse that Rampart had ever had, but right now, she faced some serious competition. By the time they reached Mike's room, all space beside him had been taken. Cap, Marco and Chet to his left, with Roy and Johnny completing this brotherly honour guard to his right. The closest they could get to him themselves was at the unclaimed foot of his bed.

True to Dixie's orders, they now filed away from him - all pausing at the door for a final glance behind them. For Kel, there was another round of grateful nods, before Cap gently herded them outside.

Staying on behind, Dixie made one last check to make sure he'd settled into the healing rest that he needed. From the contentment on his face, those dreams had taken him to a happy, carefree place. Asleep on top of his beloved engine? She wouldn't put it past him.

Smiling too, she brushed his hair back from his forehead, her hand instinctively checking its temperature. In sleep, he looked so peaceful. All kinds of cute and innocent too. Hardly the rebel-rouser that Hank Stanley had warned her to expect.

" _You think doctors and paramedics make lousy patients? Trust me, Dix, they've got nothing on concussed, engine-deprived engineers_."

Mike Stoker? A lousy patient? No, she just couldn't see that at all. Just in case, though, she knew the perfect way to keep him happy. A little bit of home comfort, that he'd find when he woke up in these strange surroundings, and wondered where the hell he was.

She wasn't there when it happened, but she still cherished the sight when she checked in on him the next morning. Sleeping peacefully again, with a big cuddly fire engine tucked under his arm.


End file.
